Leather Gloves
by Raphiael
Summary: Amelia considers a gift for her mother. A short sort-of holiday tale, for Intaglionyx.


A/N: gift fic for Intaglionyx for this year's FE exchange. It's a little odd, but I'm happy with where it is. And it's been way too long since I wrote Grado, so it's nice to get back to it a little bit.

**Leather Gloves**

The calluses on Amelia's bare hands were still hard and rough to the touch, like softened wood against the pads of her fingers, toughened and reddened even more by the howling winds whipping through the Grado highlands. She wished she could say she'd gotten used to it. Gloves for Grado's grunt soldiers had never seemed to be a priority; the men in charge had barely seemed to care if she had any sort of protection at all, so long as she'd a spear to stab with and at least one arm to hold it. And Renais' soldiers and royals, well, they were nice enough, but it wasn't as if her slim, girlish hands could fit even the smallest pair they had to spare. She still remembered Franz's apologetic frown as he watched his own pair slide off her wrists, the too-long fingers flopping uselessly inches past the tips of her own.

But still, the ache from her fingers shot up her wrists and forearms, sending a chatter she couldn't quite conceal up to her teeth.

"Do you think. . .my mother might like some gloves?"

Winter gifts for the winter feasts- a small trinket, nothing elaborate. A simple show of warmth to stave off the growing cold, or so that's what Amelia was told it was about. She half remembered getting gifts: sweet buns, hair ribbons, a stuffed cat left threadbare when last she'd seen it.

The general at her side was silent for a moment, stoic, and Amelia thought she had to have asked something foolish. Quickly, she tried to adjust her words.

"What I mean is- well, it's getting cold! And. . . if she's still working hard, like she always did, at. . . at gardening or. . . things, they'd be useful! Wouldn't they?"

Did her mother garden? Amelia thought she remembered that- bright flowers open wide, harsh color stinging her eyes in the morning light. Or was that something else- a flash of magework? a wyvern's wings? Did anyone still garden after the war, or did they save their shovels for burying the dead?

Duessel's voice cut in, rough and worn, as if ground down by Jehanna's sands. "I think she will be most glad to meet you."

"To meet you". Not "to see you again". Amelia had hoped she might forget herself. She rubbed at the cuffs of her sleeves and tugged at the ends of her hair, too short still to pull back like Frelia's princess liked to, but long enough that it tended to dangle, stringy and limp, in front of her nose when she moved. Again, the pinpricks at the corners of her eyes came and passed. She couldn't cry again, not even if Duessel did, too. She_ was_ still a soldier, after all.

"But I don't think that's enough."

Yes, a nice, well-made pair of gloves, like the ones Princess Eirika liked to wear. Not quite as high, perhaps, but with the same elegance and cut, made to fit a lady's hands. In Amelia's faint memories, her mother's hands were bigger than her own, but warm and gentle, enveloping her own for some reason she couldn't quite place. She tried to recall the context, but came up blank - or worse, imagining someone else's hands pressing the shaft of a lance into her own, guiding her in the motions of war.

Push, thrust, stab, slash. Pull back hard. Don't let go-

Warm leather gloves, with strong thick stitching up the seams. Yes, that would be a lovely gift. Even if she had a pair already, a second couldn't hurt. Amelia tried not to bite her cheek too hard and swore it was only against the chill of the evening wind.

"We've plenty of time for you to think about that yet, lass. Don't fret too much, all right? You leave the worrying to old men like me."

Don't fret too much? How was she not to fret? She couldn't envision even her mother's face; it came in a halo of blonde-gold-white, so many years lost. Suppose she couldn't pick out her own kin in a crowd after so long? Suppose the war had changed her too much? Did good daughters take lives? Did they tremble in fear at the face of their first battle? Defect at the first challenge?

Amelia did. All those things and more. At least her mother had an excuse.

"I won't." Amelia stretched a smile across her face. "I just want her to be happy with what I can give her. That's all."

Again, her eyes seared- only the cold, only the gusts. Daughters might be allowed to cry, but soldiers surely weren't. If one were lost to her, she'd keep the other as best she could.


End file.
